


Best Served Cold

by DefineNormal



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Terrific Fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefineNormal/pseuds/DefineNormal
Summary: Robert has his revenge. *REPOST from FF.net 4/14/12*
Relationships: Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley
Kudos: 3





	1. A Game

Robert remembers.

Her pale skin shimmering in the moonlight.

Her usually gentle fingers gripping him tightly, bruising his shoulders through his dinner jacket.

Her thighs gripping him close; her dinner dress bunched around her waist.

Her wanton desperation, and the things she whispered against his throat, ignite his blood even days (weeks) later.

 _I need you. Don't be gentle. Fill me. Hold me. Oh God_. Lascivious, shameless things that urged his pulse into a dangerous staccato.

Her pleas for release, teeth pinching her lips, gaze sightless. He pinned her wrists above her head and she bowed her back, cried out.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. ohgodohgodohgod._

He collapsed atop her and she wrapped around him languidly, her smirk melting into an expression of lazy contentment.

"What was that all about?" He rasped finally, when he was capable of speech. Not that he was complaining, but Cora, while terribly desirable in the bedroom, had always been a model of propriety.

Rutting together like commoners under the stars was just not done. Hastily arranging themselves before returning to the drawing room, where their absence was no doubt noted and remarked upon, was beneath them. This had been a monumental lapse in judgement, and a mistake.

Although when she gave him a lingering kiss to the base of his throat, her hands sliding to cup him to her, he couldn't quite remember why.

* * *

In the weeks that follow he finds himself reminiscing on that evening often. Cora is the same, even tempered, attentive wife she has always been. The evening temptress seems to have vanished and she appears disinclined to discuss, much less repeat, the experience.

In time, as he ruminates and replays the night at every opportunity, understanding dawns.

Her slow smile. Her distant seduction. Her shameless perusal at dinner.

She played with him, dared him to follow her.

It is a game.

And it is his turn.

* * *

Robert allows several more weeks to pass, waiting for the right moment. It will be easier to unsettle her if she believes he's given up the challenge. They still make love regularly, under the cover of darkness in their bedroom, easy and familiar, and nearly polite. He displays the proper amount of affection in public.

She tries, and is mostly successful at, masking her disappointment.

Appointments and calls, tea and luncheon, a variety of dinners. They spend the final few weeks packing for the trip to London and Cora is swamped with preparations.

They have a fitting at the dressmakers, and as usual Robert chooses to accompany everyone to Ripon, ostensibly to assure that there will be no further incidences with Sybil's wardrobe.

The ladies are shown to their dressing rooms and Robert is left alone in the front room. He waits until Mrs. Elsey is busy elsewhere before he moves stealthily towards the dressing area. On a hook outside each room hang a series of dresses, each to be tried on and fitted for final alterations. It doesn't take much skill to pick out the frocks belonging to his wife, and he doesn't even knock when he enters the room behind her.

 _Robert!_ , the exclamation freezes on her lips and dances in her eyes when they meet his in the mirror. He presses a finger to his lips. She is, as he'd hoped, only half dressed. Her travelling dress hangs neatly and she stands before him in a mere corset and underthings. He approaches and allows his fingers to curl around her steel-encased waist. He drops feather-light kisses along her neck and shoulders, and he can feel her relax into his embrace.

"You are so beautiful." He whispers, barely audible, more of a vibration against her rose-tinged skin.

"You shouldn't be in here." She says the words, but her tone belies her meaning.

His right hand skims the edge of her corset and drops between her thighs to cup her, fingers pressing intimately until she squirms. Her lovely lips drop into an O, and he feels her gasp more than hears it.

Her legs shift just a bit, widening, requesting a firmer touch. He does not comply. She maintains his gaze in the mirror, although her blue eyes are going glassy, and more than once her knees buckle.

It isn't long before he's holding her up and her entire body is trembling. He presses one more kiss to her overheated skin, lets loose an airy groan, and then just as quickly as he appeared he slips away.

It is so very difficult for him to look away from the high color in her cheeks, and her heaving bosom, desire written so plainly on her features. Her fine-boned hands are curled into cruel fists and she shakily reaches for her first dress as the door shuts behind her.

He enjoys her discomfort all the way home, the blush not dimming with time and only increasing as each daughter in turn inquires about her health.

"Too much sun." Cora finally mumbles, and everyone looks out the window to the overcast sky.

They ride the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

The Dowager is waiting to have tea with them when they return, and Robert can almost feel the irritation rolling off Cora in waves. No need for her to know he arranged this in advance.

Everyone retires upstairs to dress for tea and Robert waits just outside the library for his wife to appear. She does, her composure intact, and her look bordering on poisonous.

How quickly she has forgotten the gauntlet she threw for him. He gives her a little nod as she passes and when her hand alights on the doorknob, he delivers a quick, solid flat-handed smack to her bottom.

Her indignant yip is followed by his innocent, "Shall we?" as he reaches past her to open the door.

Cora is careful to sit across the room from him during tea, shooting daggers in his direction at every chance, swallowing hard when she catches the heat from his gaze. It takes little imagination to undress his wife in his mind, and she has known him long enough to ascertain his thoughts with minimal effort.

It takes Violet several extra seconds to get his attention, and she chastises him for daydreaming.

Unruffled, Robert instead plans his next move.

* * *

He has to tip his hat to Cora. She is made of much sterner stuff than he, and stands strong during his week-long onslaught.

He fondles her in the tub, waiting until O'Brien has left to retrieve more towels, before allowing his fingers to dip below the water and draw lazy circles around her breasts, not stopping until gooseflesh has spread across her skin.

He pins her to the wall on the landing before luncheon, kissing her thoroughly until she is mewling against his lips.

In the garden, as she sits at her embroidery while his mother prattles on, he leans close and whispers daringly that he dreams of her beneath him, and what he plans to do when she gives in. She drops a stitch, bloodies her finger and breathes a little heavier for the next ten minutes.

On yet another ride to town, as she sits beside him watching out the window, he keeps his eyes on Branson and allows his fingers to draw up under her skirt. She doesn't look at him, but unsuccessfully swats at his hand until they arrive at their destination. He looks pleased, a marked difference from her sour expression.

In the end he finds that he is as much on edge as he'd been during her campaign, and begins to contemplate that perhaps that even by losing, he would be winning. If she won't come to him, he'll go to her.

Either way, what bliss?


	2. Two Can Play

**London**

Robert is downcast, but not surprised that they hardly see one another through the start of the season. Cora is caught up performing her duty presenting Sybil to the correct people while reaping some of the benefit of her title. She is still popular during the Season, being American, a Countess, beautiful and having successfully conquered the daunting task of running Downton.

An outsider no longer, she has more obligations to fill than Robert himself, and he amuses himself by watching her.

They are at the Wentworth Ball, Sybil's third, and Cora is stepping back to allow her youngest some freedom. He watches as she observes her daughter, a half-smile twisting her lips as Sybil is all but swarmed with young men. His daughter is a beauty and a source of pride for Robert, but he only has eyes for his wife.

For his wife, and for the other gazes taking in the sight of her. Robert pays close attention to the appreciative glances that follow Cora as she circles the room. The Season always makes him more possessive of Cora, as she is suddenly on display to a variety of well-heeled men with large fortunes and an eye for beauty.

He didn't question her devotion or love for him, but he didn't trust the rest of the peerage quite so much. It was common, after nearly three decades of marriage, for wives and husbands to seek loving shelter outside the bounds of their union. Their relationship was the exception rather than the rule, as the previous age of loveless marriages began to expire. He knew there were far too many men in the room all too willing to test the water of Lady Grantham's marital devotion and the very thought set Robert's blood to boil.

Not that it took much, these days, to get his back up. After weeks of playing games with his wife, the bustle and charge of the London Season had all but ended their playful seduction. The London house was smaller, the rooms closer together, the servants more present. He felt as if their lives were cluttered with people and Cora's attentions distinctly elsewhere the moment they arrived in the city.

He longed for the relative peace of the Estate. The hundreds of rooms they could get lost in. The comfortable distance between their bedroom and the girls.

He missed the privacy. With hardly a moment alone with Cora, he was beginning to feel the pinch of loneliness, and it was not at all a welcome sensation.

* * *

Robert's gaze is a physical caress that Cora acknowledges silently as she moves through the room. It is a disappointment that she's been so busy since arriving in London. With their grown-up flirtation put on hold, she finds herself more scattered and out of sorts than usual.

The Wentworth Ball is large and well-attended and she is never far from Sybil as her daughter is introduced among society. Cora would be lying if she said she doesn't enjoy the attention she garners as Lady Grantham, but she finds the forward advances of the men to be tiresome. She has eyes for only one gentleman in a dashing jacket, and he is eyeing her like a hawk from across the room.

And when she accepts a dance proposal from Francis Lilterly, one of the less discreet of her suitors, she can sense Robert's irritation spike even from this distance.

There is nothing, she has found, that a little jealousy can't make better.

Robert seeks her out on the balcony twenty minutes later, and irritation is evident in the deep furrows of his forehead. He backs her into the shadows, palm pressed to her lower back to keep the distance between their bodies minimal.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, all flash and anger and delicious jealousy. "Francis?"

"'Never turn a man down unless you've previously promised the dance to another partner." She parrots to him, her grin wickedly pleased at the tension in his grip.

"Francis?" He repeats. His tone is smokey and she suddenly, for the first time in their marriage, worries that he is about to do something terribly improper. The thin distance between their bodies disappears and he presses his knee between her thighs.

"I..." She doesn't get another syllable past her lips when his mouth catches hers in a desperate kiss. He is pulling her forward against him, his lips rough and his tongue demanding. He kisses her until they are both breathless, then presses his forehead to hers.

"You make me crazy." He rasps, and she cups his cheeks with her palms. His skin is warm and she imagines she can feel the blood coursing just beneath the surface, pounding for her.

She is lightheaded with power; she is drunk on desire.

"Robert," She says it airily, breathlessly, and his expression melts to concern. "I think I have a headache."

His double take is priceless before he catches the humor in her face and the true meaning in the velvet of the words.

"I think you need to take me home. Rosamund can see the girls back to the house."

His grin is wide as he bundles her towards the front door and calls for the car before heading back inside to inform his daughters of their mother's illness. When he returns, Branson is helping his wife into the car and Robert is right behind her.

"The girls are concerned, but not enough to insist on coming along." Robert whispers against her ear when they pull away and head back to the house. He glances at Branson, whose eyes are steadily forward, and pulls Cora closer to his side. "Thank God."

They are lost in world of their own making as they drive through the night-heavy streets of London. Cora tucks her head beneath Robert's chin, pressing her ear to the starched firmness of his shirt. Her hands have disappeared beneath his dinner jacket, drawing lazy circles wherever they can reach. The air is cool but she doesn't feel it; Robert's hands and fingers keeping her blissfully warm. She hiccups her pleasure into his throat, his nearness and wandering hands stoking the slow burn to rage even higher.

When her palm cups him through his trousers his hips jerk and he wraps fingers around her wrist. Should she continue in that vein, all their fun would be for naught, and he would never live down the embarrassment. So she withdraws and sets instead to caressing his thighs and abdomen, pressing butterfly kisses to the underside of his jaw.

They are both unsteady by the time they reach the house, pulling away from one another reluctantly.

"I'm heading up. Please tell Miss O'Brien I'll be waiting." Cora says as the footman takes her coat, and notices Robert's slightly deflated expression. Her dress, brand new, is delicate and complicated. And as much as she desires her husband's hands on her at that moment, she knows the lovely silk won't stand up to the onslaught. It will be less exciting for him to arrive to find her already dressed for bed, but she has a few surprises in store for him regardless.

She leaves Robert in the foyer to explain away their unexpected return.

* * *

Robert can feel the blush staining his neck and cheeks as he makes his way up to his dressing room. It is a terrible curse that he can't lie without giving himself away with a rosy glow. It would no doubt be the talk of the servants quarters, his hurried return with his wife to the house... _sans famile_. And if Branson was paying any attention at all to the backseat...

On the landing outside Cora's room, however, his thoughts are interrupted as he catches the faintest scent of his wife's perfume. All thoughts of propriety melt away. Damn the servants and their sinister gossip. He would give them something to talk about.


	3. Both Will Win

Neither Cora nor O'Brien hear the bedroom door open, but suddenly Robert fills the mirror behind them both. The storm in his eyes is enough to send O'Brien scurrying out the door, with a fresh and enticing story to share with the rest of the staff when she arrived downstairs.

Even through her surprise, it does not take much to recognize the hungry stupefaction in Robert's gaze. She is only mostly prepared for bed, but the effect is intentionally startling.

O'Brien hadn't had time to tie back her hair, so it cascades loosely over her shoulders. She chose a gossamer dressing gown, positively useless against the elements but serving its purpose to entice him.

"Where on earth did you get that?" He asks from several steps away, voice gravelly. He is rooted in place by the sight of her. Beneath the diaphanous layer of her dressing gown she wears the piece de resistance acquired not long after that fateful visit to the dressmaker's in Ripon. When Cora had inquired about the newest in French underthings, Mrs. Elsey proudly pulled this nightgown from the back room.

Although it could hardly be called a _gown_ , for it falls to well above the knees. Pale pink, sheer and edged in the most delicate lace possible, embellished with tiny rosettes. In the right light (with candlelight being _exactly_ the right light) it is nearly transparent, leaving no curve of her skin to the imagination.

In answer to his question Cora gives a little half-shrug and reaches to unbuckle her garter and remove her stocking. With care borne, not of intentional seduction but of not running the delicate silk, she begins to roll them down methodically. She glances at the mirror glass and watches his eyes trace the path of the stocking as she slides it off her foot. She is pleased with the full effect of her dress and it is exactly as planned.

He is agape, and his skin shines with perspiration. He moves his lips as if to speak but no sound comes out. He steps closer and runs his fingers over the slippery material of the gown at her shoulders and lets out the lightest groan.

"You're still dressed." Cora pouts and reaches for the other garter but Robert stills her hands. He carefully unclips it and kneels beside her to roll the stocking down gently. With her toes poised on his knee, she shifts just a little and her foot slips into his groin. "Why are you still dressed?"

Kneeling between her thighs, Robert can't quite think of an answer. To be honest, he is having extreme difficulty forming a coherent thought. Instead he runs his fingertips up her calves making a lazy traversing path. He cups her knees and pushes his palms up the inside of her thighs, spreading them wider. Cora is forced to grip the seat of the chair to keep from falling over when he places several open mouthed kisses along her inner thigh.

"Clothes." Cora mumbles incoherently. "Shirt? Pants. Why...oh, God."

The whole of her skin, usually the most delicate pale porcelain, is flushed delightfully and it feels as if she is radiating heat from every pore. She is reduced to base noises, grunts and sighs, as Robert sets to the task of pleasuring her. Her toes are curled in delight when he scoots her forward on the seat and buries his face against her, his tongue moving so fast she begins to lose her breath.

Suddenly she is sightless, her vision gone white as she tumbles into bliss. Which truly is a tumble as she slides bonelessly from the chair and into Robert's arms. She is panting, having a difficult time catching her breath, when he lays her back onto the floor.

"You win," He mutters, reaching between them to loosen the buttons on his pants. "You win. I yield. You win. Good God."

He is still dressed as he slips inside her, and they both sigh with contentment. Weeks of games and duties and the tasks of being parents melted away as he begins to move against her, hips undulating deeply. He has little control left, having spent nearly two months in a heightened state of arousal.

Her teeth on his throat are so surprising he shouts - not the guttural groan but a true holler of surprise and pleasure. He quiets himself by drawing his teeth over one of her nipples through her nightgown, and she bites down on her lip hard to resist from crying out as well.

He holds onto tenuous control until she palms the roundness of his buttocks and her nails dig deeply. He is momentarily thankful for the material protecting him until she slides her fingers beneath and presses even more violently.

He rocks twice more against her before he can't hold on any longer. He isn't the least bit quiet as he groans into her bosom, rasping her name over and over.

When he is able to focus his eyes, he glances into his wife's smiling face. She brushes her knuckles across his cheeks and offers a sweet kiss on his lips.

"Why is it always the floor?" She whispers, thinking back to their meeting in the shadows and grass. It is uncomfortable with the hard wood pressing into her back, but the gentle arms of her husband make her loathe to move.

"I might have taken you in the foyer had you not immediately called for O'Brien." Robert rolled with a groan until Cora was perched on his chest.

"Scandal aside, you would have shredded a perfectly gorgeous new dress in the process. I adore you, my love, but one of us has to uphold propriety."

"Speaks the woman who fondled me openly in the library and started this whole thing." When his back finally protests with a spasm, he urges Cora to sit up and guides her beneath the covers of the bed while he finishes undressing. He doesn't bother with nightclothes, as he is hopeful that once he recovers they will be able to enjoy a second round. "Are you ever going to tell me what in the world has gotten into you?"

"Besides you?" She whispers scandalously, and Robert tries to look shocked. But the truth is he finds her desire to speak so freely with him tantalizing. They have earned this ease and trust. It has been years since she was a nervous bride who could hardly look at his nude body without blushing furiously. Now her hands wander over his skin boldly, as she asks him to guide her, following his groans and whimpers.

"Besides me." He admits, stilling her hands and tucking her still-lithe body against his, curling around her and burying his nose in the tumble of hair on the pillow. Her rear is nestled against his groin, and he begins to feel the first stirrings of renewed vigor, but it would be a while longer yet.

He can sense that she is weighing her response, her fingers tapping lightly on the back of his hands resting on her abdomen. It is unlike her to be so uncomfortable and when she speaks it is a low murmur.

"I think..." She trails off for a few moments of silence. "I think I won't be a mother again."

"Does that bother you?" He asks, though it obviously does.

"I just...I suppose I needed to assure myself that I was desirable to you. Your mother made it very clear that my value to this family can be measured in heirs. And with Sybil's presentation I suppose it reinforced the truth I'd been avoiding."

He wants to turn her to face him, but will not relinquish his hold on her for even a moment. "Do you honestly think I would put you aside?"

"No." Her answer is firm, and he relaxes some. "I don't think this was about you, my love. *I* needed to feel desirable. I needed to remind myself of the strength of our marriage. I had to remind myself of my worth, beyond my fertility."

He can avoid it no longer and pulls away from Cora long enough to turn her towards him, using a palm at the small of her back to tuck her closer to him.

"Never question your worth, Cora." He speaks in a low, measured tone. "Because that means I've failed. As a man and as your husband."

Her arms curl around his neck and pull him close and she peppers kisses over his face.

There is another fear she cannot express, one she has only just begun to realize herself and isn't ready to share, even with her husband.

It has been years, nearly eighteen, since she last felt this way. But she can recall the unending peaks and valleys of emotion and the nearly insatiable desire for her husband that accompanied them.

She has fleeting thoughts about arranging for a doctor when they return to Downton. Thoughts that flee when Robert rubs against her seductively, allowing his hands to roam freely.

She surrenders to the feelings he stirs within her; desire, love and need.

It will be hours yet until the rest of the family returns. Hours they will spend alone together.

Alone together, and in a game they will both win.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean for this to end quite so seriously but yeah. I'm going to pretend that Cora was aware of her pregnancy a lot earlier than simply meeting with the doctor. 4 months! Also, I meant this to kind of set up Apogee/Perigee as a contrast between how Cora seeks to evaluate her worth vs how Robert tries to do the same. I also wanted Robert to begin to have nigglings (little tiny ones) of doubt about HIS worth and HIS failure as a husband. Because one doesn't just decide to start fondling maids out of the blue. And now I shall shut up before my notes are longer than the story.
> 
> Special ups to subtle tea for this whole challenge, which has been a win-win for all of us. Now we just have to wait for the finish of "French 75", which will no doubt be spectacular. AND DELICIOUS. Now I challenge all the people. MOAR PR0N for Robert and Cora. You know you want to. :D


End file.
